War Paint
by kurtvan
Summary: A documentation on the evolution of Mystique, featuring Azazel and a late-night chance encounter with unforeseen results.


**PART 1**

When Raven Darkholme first joined the Brotherhood just a few short weeks ago on the shore of sunny Cuba, she had pictured a new life full of promise, exploration and trail-blazing adventure. She had not imagined for a moment that the first weeks of her new beginning would consist of drifting around an abandoned warehouse, reading a well-worn copy of Great Expectations on a thin foam mattress while the other members – all the male ones, at least – went about renovating the old building into the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants' new headquarters.

Much to her annoyance, she found herself unable to lose herself in the novel on more than one occasion. The distracting and rhythmic sounds of nails being hammered into timber, drills whirring, and Azazel's constant teleporting from one side of the room to the other in order to complete some unknown task a little quicker caused Raven to subconsciously re-read the first line of the sixth chapter over and over, no longer paying any attention to the tale of little Pip and his over-bearing sister. She rolled onto her back and sighed, staring at the ceiling of her new-but-hopefully-very-temporary metal room which Erik had constructed with only a camp flourish of his hand.

Raven didn't like having this much time on her hands. With Charles, they had always been training, learning, teaching – here, she and Angel were only ever left to entertain themselves while the boys went about whatever business there was for the day. She smirked softly and ghosted a deep blue hand over the raised scales on her bare stomach, thinking of how much Erik had changed since she first met him. At the beginning he was such a puzzle; emotionally-driven, goal-orientated, striving only to serve his own ambition. Alright, maybe he was still a bit like that. But nonetheless, recently Raven had noticed that a piece of Charles had indeed rubbed off on the metal bender. He was more driven now than he ever was at the mansion, but he was far more organised about it, planning everything three steps in advance, rostering all daily duties and missions, even giving a name to their group so that their work could be recognised. Not that it was a very catchy name – The Brotherhood of Evil Mutants didn't exactly roll off the tongue, nor did it present exactly the right image, but it wasn't Raven's place to say so she simply stifled her giggles whenever it was mentioned.

Yes, everything in the organisation had a purpose and a mission, but for now Raven had nothing to do but sit and be _bored_. She didn't regret her move into the Brotherhood, and she knew Erik had many plans for her once construction was complete (not that she bothered asking what they were, she knew he wouldn't tell her), but for now her primary objective was to sit tight, and it was killing her. Angel, however, was content with leisure, setting up almost permanent residency in her favourite nightclub and only coming home once she was well and truly hammered. Raven would hear her stumble into bed at an ungodly hour each night and couldn't help but feel a pang of jealously at her carefree attitude, but she knew that lifestyle could never work for her, especially knowing that everyone else was labouring away. At least, in her tiny metal room in the back of the warehouse, she could sort of feel like she was helping. You know, by being there.

But it wouldn't hurt to take up some kind of hobby in the mean time, would it? She knew her skills wouldn't be needed until they had a mission other than 'paint the roof' or 'make the stage bigger', so why not have a little fun before the real work started? The shape shifter thought back to her childhood with Charles – often their days had been spent filling in time after tutoring, but the only activities she recalled truly enjoying were the ones she could lose herself in, like writing, dancing or dressing up and making up stories with her brother. Realising the Brotherhood didn't even have the resources for a scented candle, let alone a typewriter, radio or fancy dress wardrobe, Raven deflated, melting lower onto her mattress and sighing. She needed to feel useful, to do something that mattered, even a little bit. But her talents lay not in wood or metal-work, and at this point Erik was interested in nothing that didn't help improve their accommodation.

Maybe she should just shift into a nice throw rug.

**PART 2**

Exhausted from a hard day of doing absolutely nothing, Raven fell asleep after only a few more minutes of lamenting her sorrows. She was surprised by how soothing the rhythmic drumming of nails tapping into board became after listening to it for so long, and when she awoke at what she guessed was around midnight to the sound of silence, she was even more surprised at herself for missing the consistency of the beat that had irritated her so much only hours before. Her unintentional nap had thrown off her body clock considerably, and Raven found herself craving exercise and food. She padded through the doorway of her iron bedroom and into the small alcove they called their kitchen, admiring the boys' most recent renovational achievements.

The warehouse – formerly big, rectangular and empty – now sported the edition of an enclosed living space for official Brotherhood members which had seemingly been built around them overnight. Their individual living areas inside this enclosure had remained the same – Raven's room closest to the door, Angel's to the left, Azazel and Janos' beside that (Raven had many suspicions regarding why they were allowed to board together and Angel and herself were not), and Erik's room right at the end of the row, twice as large as any other. Emma Frost's room, formerly located to the right of Raven's, had been demolished and remodelled into a small kitchen and dining area as soon as she left the Brotherhood, Erik assembling it so quickly Raven had to wonder whether or not he anticipated the change.

The front section of the warehouse was occupied by a large raised stage which was only a day or two away from being completed, still lacking the addition of Erik's own personal soap box. They planned to fill the rest of the empty building with rows of seats, and maybe even a few guest rooms down the side. Erik had proclaimed on many occasions that this was to be a sanctuary for every mutant who believed in their cause.

'Their cause' – the cause which called for the death of every Homo Sapien.

Raven knew Erik's attitude was right, but the idea of personally delivering punishment to a human just for being born without a mutation still made her shiver a little.

She pushed the thought aside as she rounded the corner to the kitchen alcove, choosing instead to think about what kind of tasty midnight treat she could make out of twenty cans of beans, slightly stale bread, and enough vacuum-sealed fruit cake to feed an army.

Just as Raven was beginning to consider turning back and eating her mattress instead, she was presented with a sight she certainly did not expect.

Perched on a bar stool, leaning over their tiny communal dining table, tail in the air and twitching slightly in concentration, sat the startlingly demonic Azazel. He was facing away from her and somehow hadn't noticed her presence, and for a moment Raven considered ducking away, but sheer curiosity as to what exactly the teleporter was up to made her linger in the shadow of the hall.

Raven knew very little of the stoic Russian, only that he was a very powerful mutant who knew his way around a number of weapons, and that his presence frightened her. Especially in the middle of the night, leaning possessively over something she couldn't see.

"What are you doing?" Raven spoke before the thought had time to register, a slight edge of panic in her voice. She stiffened as soon as she spoke, not daring to move but ready to bolt if he was cradling something dangerous.

The red mutant's tail flickered in recognition but he made no attempt to turn around.

"I am supposing you cannot sleep, da?" He answered her after a moment, voice thick with a deep Russian accent, "Come, sit."

The lack of threat in his voice eased Raven's nerves, and she managed to shuffle over to the bar stool opposite him. She peered down at the objects on the table as Azazel straightened to let her see. A single paintbrush, a well-used pallet of acrylic paint, and a small canvas painted like a beautiful stained glass window presented themselves, and Raven suddenly couldn't breathe.

"Y-you paint?" She managed to splutter, relieved but also more than a little bit shocked.

The demonic man looked almost sheepish, one-sided grin showing his bright, pointed teeth.

"I was taught in Russia, but when I saw the Saint-Chappelle years ago in France I was... inspired." He nodded to his work, which featured the Virgin Mary smiling at the viewer with the baby Jesus in her arms. To Raven, it honestly looked like sunlight was beaming through the window, and it made her feel warm.

"I have many painting like this now."

She looked back at Azazel, suddenly realising this was the most she had ever heard him say.

"I know, it is ironic for a man who looks like a devil to enjoy painting things that are meant to be holy. But it gives me pleasure, after day of long work." He outright smirked at her, eyebrows raised slightly in jest. He was so comfortable, so relaxed, even when joking about his appearance. Raven wished she had that ability, but felt stupid and guilty for it. She could change her looks whenever she wanted, and yet she still wallowed in her own self-pity. This man was so much stronger than her.

"How do you do it?" Raven couldn't meet his gaze, instead running her fingers over a scaled wrist and relishing in the familiar, soothing sensation.

"What, paint?"

"No... but yes. But... no. I mean, how do you act so relaxed about your... looks?" She spoke as gently as she could, wincing slightly on the last word.

The man let out a hearty chuckle and flexed his shoulders, clearly choosing his reply carefully.

"I suppose that I spent so long acting relaxed, that after a while, I no longer needed to act." Dark eyes met her own, hoping that even through the slight language barrier, his message still got through, "My... 'looks', they became... like war paint."

With that, he took two clawed fingers and dipped it in a shallow pool of red paint from his palette. He leaned across the table towards Raven, face inches from hers, and slightly dusted his painted fingers over both of her cheeks, lingering a moment before returning to sit fully on his stool.

The action made Raven's whole body warm and chilled at the same time, like her blood was dancing through her veins. She exhaled lightly and repeated, "Like war paint."

The pair sat together into the early hours of the morning, Raven finally finding a quench to her thirst for something to do in Azazel teaching her the basics of painting. Between brush strokes, they answered and asked any questions that either of the pair had regarding the other. Azazel assured her, with a slight look of bemused shock, that he and Janos were roommates only due to their long-time friendship, and in turn she made him laugh with various impersonations of celebrities, politicians and Brotherhood members.

With Azazel, Raven found herself thinking, she really did feel her own special type of strong.

**PART 3**

When Raven Darkholme first joined the Brotherhood just a few short years ago on the shore of sunny Cuba, she had pictured a new life full of promise, exploration and trail-blazing adventure. She had not imagined for a moment that she would meet a man, devilish and charming, and together they would do their part to cleanse the world.

Their latest mission was complete – take care of the newest organization designed to release humanity from the vice of the 'mutant epidemic'. Raven knew that this was not the first group to attempt to take on the Homo Superior, nor would it be the last, but with the president of this particular committee lying dead on the carpeted floor of his office, she couldn't help but feel a little relieved, and more than a little proud of her own handiwork.

Raven heard her lover entering the room via teleportation directly behind her, and she didn't even blink when he wrapped his arms around her and ducked his head to rest his chin on her shoulder. They both stared at the body for a long moment, before Raven turned around and into the demonic man's embrace, looking up at him with bright yellow eyes.

"Ready to go home?" She sighed sleepily.

Azazel paused, breaking the embrace and stepping over to the fresh body.

"Look," He knelt down beside the body, placing two fingers at the man's neck and covering them with blood, "Remember?"

For a moment, Raven thought he was going to lick the blood off his hand, something she had seen him do plenty of times and no longer worried her. But instead he stood and returned to her, sliding his non-bloody arm around her waist.

She looked up at him, quizzical but trusting. He smirked, and brought blood-covered fingers up to her face, ghosting them over both cheeks. She leaned into his touch and smiled gently.

"War paint."


End file.
